Page 34 of Oh, Hell No

“Why?” I asked, not sure I was going to like what he was about to say next.

If this was an order from Blaise, then I would have to obey. If it was one from Linc, then…well, I might work around that. Accidents happened.

Linc took the cigar from his teeth. “Blaise made a deal with the Feds and got some future goodwill when needed from the US Marshalls if we handed him over alive. But he’s facing ten years in prison and a fine of two hundred grand.”

Fuck. I’d told myself this was a possibility.

I turned back to him, and hatred for the bastard seethed through me.

“I guess I can wait ten years before I watch the life leave your eyes,” I told him.

His eyes were the same shade of brown as Winslet’s, but they didn’t have her almond shape, and they weren’t outlined in her thick black lashes.

“You got your money,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry!”

I took another step toward him as I reached into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes. “For what exactly?” I asked him, then tapped one out into my hand before shoving the rest back where I kept them.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “For cleaning the money through you. Samson said it was the quickest and safest way to do it. I shouldn’t have listened to him.”

Taking my lighter, I lit the end of the much-needed smoke, then took a long pull. “No,” I agreed. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he pleaded.

I waited a moment more, giving him a chance to ask about her. Show some concern for his sister. When he said nothing, not even a mention of her, I walked up and slammed my fist intohis good eye. His body jerked, and he groaned, but I’d expected more from the power of the impact. He didn’t wail.

Grabbing his chin, I squeezed it to the point of breaking his jaw as he whimpered. I blew smoke in his face, then let go of him. I stepped back and took another swing. This time, the crack of his bones got more of a cry from him. Blood spewed from his nose. He spit the blood pouring into his mouth, but he still wasn’t begging and sobbing. The fucker’s pain tolerance was higher than expected.

“I’m waiting,” I told him.

He spit more blood, staring at me, his eyes full of fear, then asked, “Wh-wh-at f-f-for?”

I was gonna have to hit him again. The rage that rolled through me as he continued not to give one fuck about Winslet when she’d worried so damn much about him was taking over. Normally, I’d have a hard time punching a guy this damn weak and small. I would put him in some form of torture device and walk away while he died slowly. This selfish bastard, however, had triggered my temper.

“What for?” I repeated. Disgust with him laced in my words.

Blood dripped off his chin still, but the gushing was done. His one eye, which wasn’t swollen closed yet but hurt enough that he could only squint, widened some with confusion. Motherfucker was going to cause me to punch him to death. Which honestly wouldn’t take that much.

Stalking back over to get in his face, I lowered my head to look him dead in the eye. He winced but stood still as he prepared for whatever I was about to do next.

“For you to ask about your sister, you fucking piece of shit,” I snarled, fisting my hands to keep from grabbing his head and snapping his neck.

That would not go over well with the boss. If I did kill him, it was likely I’d follow this bitch to hell shortly after. Blaise Hugheswasn’t someone you disobeyed.

“Winzy?” He said it like a question. As if she were the last thing on his mind.

My hand shot out, and I grabbed him by the throat and squeezed hard as his one open eye bulged.

“Easy,” Linc barked.

I let go of him, shoving him backward so that he swung, while I took long strides away from him before I wrote my death sentence. My hate-filled eyes shifted to Linc. The way he studied me, as if he wasn’t sure what was wrong with me, didn’t help the fury that continued to build.

Taking the knife lying on the shelf where it was kept, I spun back to look at the man. “Yes,” I said, feeling on the verge of feral.

“Wh-what about her? You let her go. He”—his beaten face turned in Linc’s direction—“said she was back at her apartment.”

Clamping the cigarette between my teeth, I didn’t take my eyes off him when I asked Linc, “Did you tell him because he’d asked or because you thought he wanted to know?” If it was the former, then some of this rage might ease.

“I thought he’d want to know.”

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